Sorority of Submissive Girls

by P. N. Dedeaux (as Carl Buono)

  ‘They’ll have it, Majesty’, said the grinning girl, who was slightly panting.

  Rowena shuffled forward, her red hair hanging.

  ‘Mer-may I speak … Majesty?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s just that … I had to go through the line twice, and I think you’ll agree that I collected quite a dose en route.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’ The President frowned, as if not understanding.

  Lovely Rowena burst into tears.

  ‘It’s just that I … hoo-hoo … I don’t think I can …

  I mean I want to do my best … ber-ber-but I don’t think I can take fifteen … th-then three.’

  ‘Nonsense. A good flogging never hurt a big healthy girl like you. Pay attention while I sentence you and reflect on your thing-ness. I shall counsel that you get whipped nice and low, ’cos that’s where the tails really feel. You’ll find that after the sting of the first cuts it almost helps when the skin is cut; afterwards, I admit, it gets rather raw and I can’t do anything about that. You shouldn’t have been such a foolish worm.’ Aramilla shrugged her creamy shoulders until her breasts almost heaved out of the green velvet. ‘I’ve seen a girl of your size go thirty without all this fuss. Now then.’

  ‘ Please, Majesty.’

  But Rowena was beaten as all Beta Rho pledges had to be – hard. Her muscleless cheeks hung as if limply inviting the birch and the cries she gave at the last five were electrifying. After this, three resounding thrashes were given with a cane especially ‘sized’, to stiffen it somewhat. It was a furiously-wealed buttock that confronted the poor pledges, one of them already punished, when all was over. Oddly, no blood had been drawn but the cane marks, over the heavily paddled, almost puce flesh on the right, were like long blood blisters, as thick as Terry Sands’s peerless little finger.

  ‘Joan Mason. Humiliation. We’re going to give you a small lesson in your nothingness. You’d better wipe all ideas of dignity out of that mousy little head of yours at once. Kneel and put your hands behind your back.’

  Joan Mason’s knees rapped the floor. She was feeling fluttery and quaky inside. But her bottom still stung enough from the paddle to put any immediate problem out of solution, at her centre.

  ‘Do you know what the worm kiss is, Pledge?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Sandra Mclllick approached.

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty’, Joan corrected hastily.

  ‘Give her three across the back, and see if that’ll wake her up a bit, Sandy.’

  Joan writhed and sat on her heels as the switch bit in, its trainer nipping at her upper right arm excruciatingly.

  ‘Now try three across the thighs. One … two …

  and – oops!’ For Joan had fallen forward with the pain. ‘Three! Now tell us what the worm kiss is.

  Worm.’

  ‘It is’, got out Joan, gasping and frowning in concentration, ‘when the miserable and loathsome worm has the privilege of slowly inserting her worthless and feelingless tongue up the anus and into the rectum of the wonderful sorority sister. The worm kiss’, she said, still fighting for breath, ‘is a particular privilege for pledges.’ When she had finished there was a round of spontaneous applause.

  ‘Excellent, Mason. As you’ve been so co-operative you may as a special treat give it now. To Matron McIllick.’

  Joan looked up at the grinning, glossy, raven-haired figure standing over her, switch dangling.

  She paused.

  ‘If I might be permitted … my hands … to remove

  …’

  ‘Your teeth, fool’, came back the angry answer.

  ‘When will you use your intelligence? All our worms have teeth. Three across those nice strong calves of hers, if you please.’

  Slowly, and carefully, to cause no unnecessary runs, Joan drew down the lacy panties with her teeth. Sandra McIllick stepped out of them and turned her back.

  ‘Right up and keep it there.’

  Joan’s round head vanished under the pleats of leather behind. There was utter silence in the room.

  She could be seen pushing against the close, heavy buttocks. Then Aramilla said, ‘What do you feel, Matron?’

  ‘A worm.’

  ‘I vote we spit on worms.’

  The big brunette turned and spat, hard, full into Joan Mason’s released face. The globule ran down her right eye. Then one after another the entire seated sorority came forward and spat, each trying to outdo the next, into Joan’s serious face as she knelt, hands behind her. By the time they had finished, her cheeks were running with spittle, it was even oozing down her breasts, under the cool white tunic. Some of it looked like tears but that, as Aramilla remarked, could not be, in one who wanted to join Beta Beta Rho. She herself even deigned to advance and contribute, into Joan’s grateful open mouth, a wadge of wet green snot from her nostrils. Joan swallowed it on a sob.

  ‘Some seems to have fallen on the floor, rhinie’, the imperious President added, returning to her chair. ‘We don’t want to leave the place untidy, do we?’ And as the pledge bent dutifully to lick it up, Aramilla added, ‘Urtication, Matron. These are the finest Bermuda tigers, worm.’

  Sandra McIllick had donned a leather glove.

  From one bucket she extracted a bunch of the brutal-looking nettles and approached pale Joan Mason, her face still wet with spit.

  ‘Kindly raise those celanese arnel triacetate pleats in rear, Pledge Mason. And lean well forward, please.’

  At the first touch of the nettles Joan started, gasping. The jagged edges of their leaves drew up flecks of white on the red of her cheeks at once. She squirmed away in pain.

  ‘Those tigers are really strong this year’, remarked one Senior.

  ‘Please’, Joan gasped, backing off in despair.

  ‘Come here, Pledge, I’ve only just started.’

  The nettles had amazing effect. The Matron ran them up and down Joan’s shaking cheeks, which she parted for better contact. Joan leant forward with her eyes squeezed shut, her lips drawn over her teeth, steeling herself. At last it seemed over. She arched up, grasping her stung buttocks, hissing.

  ‘And now’, said Sandra McIllick, pointing, ‘bend right over, touching the floor, with your legs apart.’

  When Joan realized she shook her head. ‘I can’t’, she simply said.

  There was a deathly silence. ‘There’s no such word as can’t’, came at last from Aramilla Ponsonby. ‘What You mean is won’t. And won’t is Insubordination.’

  ‘I’m sorry but they’re just too much for me, Majesty. I never knew nettles could sting so badly.’

  ‘I understand, Pledge M.’, went on Aramilla remorselessly, ‘that you’re thinking of applying for a teaching job when you leave here. I believe you even talked with Miss Kale about her taking you on as an assistant when, and if, you graduate.’

  ‘Yes, Majesty.’

  The thought of her enemy curled Aramilla’s porcelain lip. ‘Then you must learn stoicism, worm, while you can. I think we’ll just add one Omission Demerit here.’

  Slowly and painfully Joan bent forward. Her buttocks were wealed with vicious stings all over, though these were paradoxically of a lumpy white.

  She frowned as she bent over, until her fingers touched the floor and her chubby purse parted perilously, quivering in anticipation.

  The Matron had selected fresh nettles and at the first whisk up Joan’s centre the pledge leapt erect, panting. Sandra McIllick gave an angry nod. Two tall Sophs came forward and each unceremoniously yanked an ankle over a shoulder, so that Joan Mason was upended. Dangling and twisting like a freshly caught fish she then received her full urtication – as one unfeeling Senior put it – ‘inside and out’. She was then bent over the desk.

  The four pledges watching saw her hazing with horror. To them Joan, as eldest, had always been the leader, of a sort, one on whom they could rely.

  Here she was at the end of her tether, shrieking at each briny slice of the
birch; for it was plain that the twigs stung twice as much on skin already so prepared. Ten times she was pitilessly lashed, and then came nine with the cane. Drusilla drove these into the beaten billies with a good run for each one.

  And each one seemed to lift the flesh physically, as it cut. Joan stared wild-eyed ahead, snorting in agony.

  ‘Tender buns’, said one.

  ‘One might almost think them bloody’, added another.

  ‘Unless one knew, of course, they weren’t.’

  ‘Of course. No worm’s can be.’

  Joan writhed on her knees when released and her right palm, rubbing, came away encarmined.

  ‘Next time we won’t be so lenient with you, worm’, was what she heard. ‘The penalty for Insubordination is a dozen.’

  None of the pledges had ever been whipped like this, and they were all beginning to understand that their Dorm Sisters had spoken truly about their own ‘spankings’ being child’s play, in comparison to Hell Night. Called forward next, Connie Wood came practically at a run.

  She got six and three, then Melissa had her turn.

  Her neat, liquid little nates drew universal admiration and three whippy licks of the birch.

  ‘Lay into her, Dru’ ’, called Diney Carruthers from the head table, ‘she doesn’t feel a thing, actually.’

  The six allotted from the cane were administered with gusto and drew musical cries of total pain. The group were building up, as promised, considerable respect for this sorority stick. They stood in line of height again, scared and sore, and once more their hands were strapped behind their pretty backs.

  ‘And now’, they heard, as if from some measureless distance, out of the mouth of a cavern,

  ‘now that your senses of vision, worms, and touch, have been stimulated, there perhaps remain – for this evening, at leas – only the gustatory and olfactory. Maudie, would you fetch the bucket and anyone interested can pitch in and help fill it, please. This meeting is definitely declared informal.’ And Aramilla sipped her blood-red wine.

  In the laughter and scraping of chairs Matron Mclllick passed before the sorry rank with a big red apple from the table.

  ‘An apple for the pupil’, she said, winking mischievously, ‘only one bite each, you gluttons.’

  There was a sudden ping! Five pairs of eyes flashed to the centre of the tables where the empty bucket had been placed. A tall, strong blonde had hitched up her cocktail nothing and was now astride it, humming. Her jet of pallid piss struck centrally, with vigour, but it was Tennis Skip Barbara Brooke whose contribution, an unbelievably long spell, drew the loudest applause, later. The five pledges looked on, horrified, as the golden foamy liquid rose. The shiny apple was dropped into it, and floated, bobbing.

  ‘One bite each suffices, worms. All you have to do is dip your head and catch that lovely thing.

  Even Eve didn’t have it so good.’

  Short-sighted Melissa advanced, wry-faced, arms behind her back, and knelt. There were laughs and giggles and much shouted advice from the tables as her sleek black head helplessly followed the apple in the amber foam. It was too big for her to grasp and at last she realized, with a big breath, that the only thing to do was pin the fruit on the bottom of the bucket – and chew. For the sake of Beta Beta Rho Melissa plunged amain, emerging coughing but with a piece of apple in her mouth.

  Spluttering with disgust she chewed it and returned. Finally, they had finished their test of taste and that of ‘smell’ was ordered.

  ‘Bobby, Ave, Alison, Maud, Diney.’ Aramilla clapped her chubby hands, and the five. Dorm Sisters stood and hitched their skirts. Five tiny, but exquisitely expensive, pairs of panties were tossed into a wide summer hat in the middle of the floor.

  ‘By this time’, the pledges were told, ‘you should all know your Dorm-Sisters … intimately. I’m sure you do. But to develop your wormish sense of scent you will prove so. When I say ‘Go!’ you will each get a panty and carry it to your mistress. The first one with the right pair gets a Credit, but the one who is last gets five with the cane from her Dorm Sis. We like to think we take a really personal interest in our pledges. GO!’

  As if galvanized by some electric shock the five fled forward to the cartwheel hat. Rowena was positively panting, while Joan Mason’s eyes were haggard with fear. They had been converted, they knew. They were things … nothing things. Objects.

  Its.

  Pretty Terry picked a pair of coffee-coloured panties in her teeth and to ringing applause presented them to smiling Bobby Brooke, who kissed her forehead in reward. Melissa, short of sight and breath, was last.

  ‘Spiffing’, said Diana, picking the longest cane she could find and wrapping it round the limpid lower buttocks of her charge five times with relish.

  ‘And now’, said Aramilla, handing each pledge her punishment book back and a test-tube, corked, after their restraint belts had been removed, ‘you may each return to your quarters and pursue knowledge ardently. First put on your panties and hose, and then kiss my feet before you leave. And by kiss I mean the real thing. Real worm slobber, rhinies.’

  Upstairs, in a stunned silence, they took off their WORM buttons and put them in the Matron’s locker.

  ‘Poor Joan’, said Constance.

  ‘I wasn’t exactly let off’, said Rowena, rubbing gingerly. ‘You put up a fine birch, Joanie.’

  ‘Nor me’, said Terry Sands, feeling her snubby buttocks. ‘Oh good grief, it’s seeping through my panties on the right. Do you think iodine …’

  ‘Cold cream, dearie. Anyway, you didn’t get that cane. It was murder, every cut.’

  ‘Wasn’t it just!’

  The five moved disconsolately into the shadowy Bermuda night outside.

  ‘How on earth’, said Melissa staring at her test-tube, ‘do you suppose we’re going to get these things filled?’

  ‘What about Brad, Teresa?’

  She shook her head. ‘I doubt it. I’m sure he wouldn’t aim straight.’

  ‘Get it in your mouth’, said Joan Mason coldly,

  ‘and then spit it in. It’ll increase volume, and they’ll never know there’s an additive.’

  ‘There speaks a married woman’, remarked Rowena with admiration.

  ‘A well-whipped divorcée.’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘I know a certain doubting Thomas’, said Terry reflectively, ‘an Engineering stud, at Deardon. Only thing is, he enjoys seeing me caned.’

  ‘Well, make him pay for it, dear.’

  ‘Suppose I’ll have to.’

  ‘Give me yours, Melly’, said Joan suddenly.

  ‘There’s a boy who works in the stables. He happens to be rather copious’, she added primly.

  ‘Thank you, darling Joan.’

  From the shadows of a colonnade soft laughter came. Two girls were smoking on the steps.

  ‘Warm evening, girls?’

  They were Seniors in Gamma Phi. The five walked on with raised chins.

  ‘Those panties look tight.’

  ‘Walking rather stiffly, aren’t they?’

  ‘Anyone would say they weren’t looking forward to sitting down in a hurry.’

  ‘Well at least’, said Terry Sands in a whisper of pride to the others, ‘we all came through!’’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘Back for more?’ said the grinning stable-boy, pausing as he hosed down a loose-box.

  The girl stood in the doorway, outlined in the crisp Bermuda sun. Joan Mason had come over in riding clothes, black jacket, derby, and stone-coloured cord breeches, for there were boys in the stables and no girl went there unescorted or, if she did, only as if to see about riding somewhere. It was two weeks later, Hell Night a horrible memory of the past, and Joan Mason knew she had no more than a half hour free while the head groom had his lunch in the cafeteria.

  Slipping inside the stable door she hissed, ‘I’m not here for a repeat performance. Of last time, Sam.’

  ‘What is it, the
n?’ He turned off his hose and hitched at his jeans. He was bare-chested and hairy above them.

  ‘I want some more’, she said after a moment.

  He grinned at her, said ‘Okay’, nonchalantly and led the way into a side room, whose door he shut and locked. It was a straw-strewn place, with an old desk, saddles, and the impedimenta of horses. A small toilet led off it. The head groom used it as a sort of office.

  The boy pulled a rough sawhorse into the centre and started undoing his flies, bulging already at the sight of the snugly breeched bottom of his visitor.

  ‘I tell you, Sam’, she whispered with hatred,

  ‘I’m not in the business of being … backscuttled.’

  His grin widened, loosely. ‘No?’

  ‘Not. Absolutely N-0. You’re lucky so much as to look at a Brierton girl, you skunk, let alone touch her. Let alone’, and Joan Mason’s eyes wandered,

  ‘put it up her … her …’

  ‘Bumhole?’ the boy supplied. ‘But that’s a’way I like it, honey.’

  ‘I let you do it last time, and it was agony. I should never have let you, but I had to fill that darn test-tube. I should have brought my friend’s –

  you did enough for three. But I didn’t. And, and I have to help her out. So there.’

  ‘So this is for a friend?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I thought as how each of you pledges had to do her own work, in that there sorority.’

  ‘Well. she doesn’t know any boys, and she hates the taste of it anyway.’

  ‘Anyone else know of this? I mean I might … I jus’

  could report this to your Dorm Sister, huh ?’

  ‘You could, Sam, but you won’t’, she said bitterly.

  She added rather desperately, ‘Will you?’

  ‘Not if it goes up the right hole I won’t’, said the boy with a grin.

  Joan Mason glanced about her wretchedly. She wrung her hands before him. To be reduced to … this

  … this moron, with the monstrous … why, its head was the size of a duck egg alone.

  ‘Please, Sam, please. Just this once. Let me suck you off. I’ll do it well. Like I did it in Avery’s …’